


Slowly

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Rituals, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Public Nudity, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock watches Jim get them through the strangest of situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slowly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plyushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plyushka/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for superplyushka’s “spirk ficlet? Something at least somewhat smutty” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

If there were any other choice, they wouldn’t be here.

They’d limp to the nearest starbase if they could. But they simply don’t have the power even for that, and this close to the Neutral Zone, it would be far too risky; another Klingon skirmish has already left them damaged. The inhabitants of Mrennenimus III were nice enough to send engineers up to help peripheral repairs, but the dilithium crystals are what the Enterprise needs most. 

And the dilithium crystals are what the Mrennenimian government won’t give up without certain rituals completed. They’re a very strange people, mostly humanoid, though scaled and somewhat slimy to the touch, wearing clothes only around their torsos that jut out in the back, hard, like shells. They’re friendly enough, though _friendly_ has never gone far in Spock’s books, not when everything else about them is so highly... _illogical._

This ritual makes absolutely no sense. It will prove nothing and accomplish even less. It’s a waste of the command crew’s valuable time, but Jim’s listened to their decrees and decided the strange ceremony will be ‘worth it.’

In a way, Spock is glad that Jim is the one chosen to complete it. In another, Spock wishes he were the one inside the tiny, rounded brown-red chamber, and Jim was safely on the other side of the glass observation wall, not stripped and chained.

“For purity,” the Mrennenimian priest beside Spock explains, hir voice garbled even through the translator. Two other priests stand behind hir and Spock, while a fourth slips into the chamber, carrying a heavily adorned box. “The state of shell-less-ness is a holy one.”

Like most things considered ‘holy,’ Spock doesn’t understand. But he knows better than to say so. He merely stands silent, hands behind his back, watching intensely through the glass as the priest comes to kneel before his captain. At first, Jim’s attractive features bear puzzlement—he was briefed, but in flowery language instead of detailed truths. With his arms pulled taut above his head and his wrists bound with ribbons secured to the ceiling, he can’t maneuver away from the priest. The lid of the box is set to one side of the kneeling alien, the box itself, apparently emptied, on the other.

And in the middle, Jim’s eyes go very, very wide. Spock’s scrutiny increases, wary of the shock on his captain’s face, and ready to intervene the moment anything more sinister arises. Jim winces, his face screwing up, twisting in disgust. Spock sees no true pain in it, but he tentatively probes through their mental bond all the same, formed through one too many mind melds and the lingering touch of their hands every night. Jim’s too preoccupied to respond at first, but when Spock pushes harder, Jim’s blue eyes lift to meet him, and his expression hardens: a captain playing martyr. Through their mental connection, he seems to say _I’m alright_ , though Spock maintains his doubts. 

The priest rises again and heads out of the room, Jim’s eyes dropping back down. As soon as xe’s moved out of the way, Spock sees what the box contained, and he instantly understands where Jim’s discomfort is coming from. 

“They are good luck,” the priest next to him explains, a note of pride in hir voice. Obviously, xe considers this ritual common place and sees no reason for Spock to feel otherwise. The priest who entered the room joins them outside, and Spock does his best to stand as stoically and unaffected as them. 

But it’s difficult to do so when Jim is stuck on the other side of a solid partition, stripped and bound and laden with small creatures in the most sensitive of places. Snails, Spock believes is the Earth name for them, though they’re likely native to Mrennenimus III—the Terran facsimiles don’t glow iridescent colours. In all other respects, the snails appear very similar. Five of them have been attached to Jim’s flaccid cock, the organ nestled against his lush thighs. The snails all appear to be moving, though very slowly, and they drag with them a glistening, clear liquid as they go. One is headed up for the golden tufts that cover Jim’s base, two dipping down each side, one idly circling the middle and the fifth crawling down towards the veiled head of Jim’s cock. Both mesmerized and concerned, Spock stares at the area more than he usually would allow himself to in public. A passing glance at Jim’s face shows Jim’s chin on his chest, staring nervously down at the alien creatures. There’s a very slight tremble in his hips. He tucks his legs closer together, until his feet are touching, probably to ensure that the snails can’t crawl below his balls and around to the other side. It’s a very strange sight indeed. 

“Magnificent,” one of the priests behind Spock breathes in awe, “Look how bright they glow; they like him! He will clearly pass.”

“We don’t yet know that,” the head priest gently chides. Spock has no frame of reference to judge for himself how well the ritual is going, but he can only hope that Jim won’t suffer this eccentric fate in vain. 

Spock watches him carefully, ready to intervene the moment it becomes too much. Spock keeps a constant tab on Jim’s mental state—he’s uncomfortable, yes, but he’s the captain and has made this decision. Yet Spock won’t allow Jim to take more than he can handle—there’s a line no sentient being should have to cross, even for the sake of their ship. Despite their audience and the glass between them, Spock reaches out, doing his best to fill his _t’hy’la’s_ thoughts and be _there for him_. Spock can see a tremor run through Jim’s body at the contact, and for the first time since receiving the snails, he allows himself to blink. He takes a deep breath. He’s still nervous, but Spock has helped. Spock keeps that link with him. Spock keeps his eyes down, surveying the situation for Jim.

Even with the distraction of alien creatures aboard it, it’s trying for Spock to stare at Jim’s crotch for so long. He isn’t entirely Vulcan, and he still has human... _urges_... from time to time. His lover is very attractive. Particularly naked, on display, pulled taut and all exposed, skin flushed from elevated breathing. Jim is a constant test to Spock in that regard, although there are usually more clothes in between them to help. It makes the ritual decidedly difficult for Spock, and he soon finds himself asking, as idly as he an manage, “How long must he endure this?”

“Until his arousal stirs,” the priest returns as easily as though discussing the stars. Spock would look at hir to study hir expression, except that he can’t look away from Jim. The priest continues simply, “That is why we invited his lover to watch, after all.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow but stops his reaction there. He doesn’t ask how the aliens know of his relationship with his captain, which is neither particularly secretive nor publicly overt. It would be inappropriate to be anything less than professional on a strictly diplomatic mission such as this, so the Mrennenimians shouldn’t have known, yet evidently, do. 

After another moment during which Jim, understandably, doesn’t grow hard, the priest adds, “You may help him, if you wish.”

Spock’s mouth frowns into a thin line. His reaction must give him away, because Jim looks up at him, searching. The room inside is sound proof. Spock isn’t about to do anything obviously sexual to stimulate his lover, though he knows that Jim responds well to such visuals. It wouldn’t be rational to subject either of them to more undignified behaviour than is required. Still, it’s clear that if Spock doesn’t help, Jim will be forced to endure this indefinitely. His immense sexual appetite seems thoroughly crushed by the slithering of snails across his cock. The one nearest the bottom has reached his tip by now, and it appears to be dangling happily at the end, the long trail of juices left behind making Jim’s shaft shimmer in the light that sifts through the glass. Two have now nestled against the edge of his blond curls, the other two languidly drawing patterns around the shaft’s sides. Jim looks on the verge of whimpering, but he doesn’t. He remains a dignified Starfleet captain sampling new cultures. Or as much as he could be in this situation. 

For Jim’s sake, Spock tentatively prods a bought of _want_ through their bond. It’s just a small cloud. Vulcan libido, once stirred, can be a very fierce thing, and Spock can’t risk becoming hard himself and unleashing that animal. But he does his best to urge his captain along, sending out a steady beat of _desire._

Jim looks up, startled. Spock does his best to keep his expression from changing. Inwardly, he tries to ease Jim into lust, conjuring bedroom memories and warm feelings and snippets of their shared dreams. Jim looks at him, studies him, and then seems to understand. Surely, he knows that Spock would not do this if it weren’t _the logical thing._

Jim lets himself receive Spock’s want. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to feel it, but Spock can only sense the struggle, not the payoff. The snails upon him are too strange, too disconcerting. Spock risks sending a burst of _pure sex_ —images of their joining from the first night they spent in Sarek’s home, tucked under the covers of Spock’s childhood bed. It was a passionate night, on the eve of Spock’s pon farr, but the memories of that time itself are foggy and harder to share. The twinkle in Jim’s eyes says that he remembers them for himself. He shivers with obvious delight, and his cock twitches, the snails clinging tightly to it. Spock finds his lips parting. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel them on Jim’s own, feel Jim’s fingers slipping sensually between his. He can imagine pushing their chessboard aside and taking turns bending one another over the shallow table in the captain’s ready room. Then he thinks of lying Jim down beneath the light of T’Rukh on the shores of the Voroth Sea, and tasting him in the heat of a Vulcan summer, the stench of their lovemaking heavy in his blood.

He opens his eyes. He will arouse himself if he continues this. But it won’t be enough to arouse Jim otherwise; Jim _needs_ him. Without taking his eyes off his lover, he asks, “May I touch him?” 

The priest doesn’t answer at first. Xe turns to hir companions, and at once they confer with one another, too quickly in their native tongue for the Universal Translator to follow. After several harried seconds of this, the head priest turns back to Spock and announces, “Because you are alien, we will allow this. But you must not disrupt the gods’ vessels.”

Spock answers only, “I understand.” He doesn’t understand how a warp-drive capable culture could think snails house ‘gods’, but it isn’t his place to question that. He’s confident he can arouse Jim without touching Jim’s crotch, and he allows one of the priests to usher him over to the side door. It lets him into the rounded chamber, where Jim immediately looks to him. 

“I have been approved to help you,” Spock explains, approaching Jim, while the door shuts behind him. At the question on Jim’s face, Spock elaborates, “Apparently, they will not consider this ritual complete until you have become aroused.”

Jim frowns but doesn’t look otherwise surprised. “That explains your sudden bond activities. I’m glad to know it’s not that you have a snail fetish.” He doesn’t laugh with his joke; this is a serious situation. 

But it’s something of a relief to be without a barrier between them again, even if Jim is still tied in place and at the mercy of strangers. Spock stops just beside him, and Jim turns his head as if for a kiss, then seems to remember Spock’s public preferences and stops. Spock appreciates the consideration. 

Jim winces suddenly and looks down; the snail at his tip seems to be squirming about. Strained, Jim asks, “I’d appreciate it if you were quick about it, Commander.”

“I will endeavor to do so, Captain,” Spock returns. 

He doesn’t imagine he’ll have to do much. He knows which parts of Jim’s body are most sensitive, and he lifts two fingers to start at the crux of Jim’s hip, his fingertips digging into warm flesh hard enough to make Jim gasp. Spock gives the jut of Jim’s hip a few gentle strokes, never straying low enough to reach the blond hair that seems to keep the snails at bay. After a time, he pets higher, up to Jim’s side, past Jim’s waist, and over to Jim’s broad chest. Jim has a hitch of breath and arches forward, letting the ribbons attached to the ceiling keep him from falling. Spock idly traces the lower curve of Jim’s pectorals, their connection burning hot beneath his fingers. Touch telepathy always adds a certain spark to their games, though Jim can be stimulating enough on his own. 

No one turns Jim on like Spock does, he’s said more than once. Even now, in such a strange environment, Jim lets his eyes fall closed, giving in to Spock’s touch and letting himself feel lust for it. A flush has begun to rise in his cheeks, made deeper the more Spock strokes him. Spock presses his palm down over Jim’s left nipple, then smoothes over it to the next, tracing it with his index finger several times before coming back to the first. Jim’s nipples pebble easily for him, and below, a twitching movement catches Spock’s eye. Jim’s cock has risen partially off his thighs, held at half-mast, the snails quietly clinging to it. Spock can’t help but wonder what the trails they’ve left behind feel like, perhaps taste like, though he would have no such interest if they painted anything else. On Jim’s cock, the temptation’s always there...

Jim lets out a subtle groan, and Spock stops stroking the perked nipples in favour of tweaking them, pinching lightly and tugging. Jim grits his teeth, but clearly more in pleasure than pain. Spock drops his other hand to cup the round globes of Jim’s ass. He caresses the dip from rear to thigh, then takes a handful of supple flesh and _squeezes_. Jim gasps, arching further forward, his cock responding accordingly. As Spock fondles Jim’s cheeks, he considers slipping a finger between them to test Jim’s tight hole, but the aliens only want him aroused, not to orgasm, so Spock decides to save such activities for later. 

For now, he kneads Jim’s ass and plays with Jim’s nipples, watching Jim flush and begin to squirm, pant and moan a quiet, “ _Spock_.” Spock only answers through their bond. He holds Jim in that mental embrace, while Jim surrenders himself to the pleasure their hosts require, mounting ever higher. 

Spock finalizes it by drifting away from Jim’s chest, tracing his collarbone and up his throat, fingertips caressing his lips in a human-Vulcan kiss. Jim’s mouth opens, and Spock’s fingers rest at the corner, just barely poking in. 

Jim _moans_. Spock glances down to see Jim’s impressive shaft jutting proudly outwards. The snails are no longer moving, and their shells are glowing a faint-orange red. 

The side door opens, a priest wafting inside. Xe announces, “You have passed!” Outside, the other members of hir order are making a strange ululating noise: their version of human applause. Jim lets out a ragged breath, his eyes still closed. They open when the alien’s hands are on him. 

One by one, the Mrennenimian priest plucks the snails off of Jim, which go with a wet lurch and nothing more. Xe places them back in the box, and another priest swoops in to unbind Jim’s wrists. When he’s free, he sags, and Spock subtly keeps an arm draped around his waist, ready to catch him should he fall.

“The crystals you seek shall be yours,” a third priest in the doorway announces, earning a faint nod from Jim. The aliens hurry off as quickly as they came, clutching their sacred box and whispering excitedly amongst one another, until only Jim and Spock are left in the room, the door open. 

Jim’s clothes are folded in front of the glass. He dresses himself hesitantly, giving his own crotch funny looks the whole time. Spock stands back, trying to reign his own emotions back in. When Jim straightens, Spock suggests, “We should see to the shipment.”

“Scotty can do that,” Jim says, coming back to take Spock’s hand in his, particularly firm. “You and I are going back to the ship for a shower _now._ ” His tone makes it very clear that this is a command. 

Spock answers, “Yes, Captain,” and follows where he’s taken, ready to ease his _t’hy’la_ of that limp.


End file.
